


Anything Beautiful

by PurpleProsaist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Drabble, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, Mid-Quest, Mordor, Mount Doom, One Shot, Purple Prose, hobbit kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 12:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18180797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleProsaist/pseuds/PurpleProsaist
Summary: "Do you remember anything beautiful at all?"





	Anything Beautiful

"Do you remember anything beautiful at all?" Sam knows he is grasping to ask this now, and to gaze upon Frodo lying so atremble in his embrace, he wonders if he is too fragile to withstand the weight of the words (much less answer them). Mr. Frodo, the one hobbit Sam had always considered hardiest of them all — perhaps not strongest physically, yet more than making up for it in terms of his commanding presence and wisdom, his wit and depth of soul. It is now Sam's doom to witness him breaking. 

He attempts to brush some of the grime from Frodo's cheek, but with equally soiled fingers only succeeds in pushing it around. A beloved curl, damp with sweat, oily black, had plastered itself to his temple. That, at least, Sam can brush away, so he does. 

Frodo's eyes, dulled as a shriveled and dying bloom, are fixated on him all the while. He does not reply at once, so Sam, expecting nothing more of him, simply cradles him, touches his face. He breathes and beholds Frodo and treasures the divine blessing of Frodo's mere existence. 

The only thing either can do is regard the other — and it remains so for many faint heartbeats. 

When at length Frodo rasps, "You," Sam has to reach back into his memory for his own initial question. 

"Me?" he exhales. However hushed, his voice resonates clearly for the drear emptiness of the land. 

"Your face. Your fingers. You, Sam." Frodo's speech (once so eloquent) is ominously concise, punctuated with jagged gasps that shake his frame. 

Sam's face, merely the sight that is before Frodo in the Here and Now; Sam's fingers, caressing his tender adoration, merely the sensation least akin to agony which Frodo can perceive. Nonetheless, the sentiments strike Sam dumb in their heartfelt sincerity. If he is now Frodo's only remaining link to home, Sam will bear the role to the best of his ability. If nothing else can possibly remind the soul he holds of the love they once both knew in the world, Sam is undoubtably going to try. 

But Frodo is again grappling to speak, "I... Sam, I—" and his voice is so thin it gives Sam a hellish vision of the life rushing fully and finitely from his lungs. 

Before any such thing can happen, Sam lowers his head and kisses him. Frodo's lips are cold, embittered with soot, and they cling pliantly (limp as death herself) to Sam's. The labored words perish with a serene hum against Sam's mouth, and Frodo's eyes finally flutter shut for a more than deserved moment's rest. Sam only allows himself to savor a few seconds before sitting up again. "Shush now, Mr. Frodo, me dear," he murmurs then. "I'm awful sorry. Don't waste no more of that breath; 'tis a precious thing." 

This Burden Frodo must be rid of, soon as possible. Sam vows to himself that he will help shorten his suffering however he may. He thinks only of the destruction of that wretched Ring, the hope in him still clinging to the future unknown and the possibility of any good contained therein. 

Lately Sam had found himself, whenever drifting upon the edge of a dream, fancying that all the green things of the Shire were (over all that oblivious landscape) calling them home. Nary but a childlike fantasy he knows, but the silly little notion is a rare tendril of comfort to cling to anyway. One thing he is certain of: the flora and fauna of the Shire alike must miss Mr. Frodo dearly much. 

Especially the big oak they used to read under sometimes. That tree (so gracious, graceful, and peaceful with her offering of a wide, verdant patch of shade) must have witnessed Frodo's smile the most (dimple flashing and eyes all aglitter at every clever turn of word.) 

(Sam is too prone to reminiscing in the midst of such destitution, when Frodo has been bereft of this comfort. So without another thought Sam will continue to offer however much comfort he possibly can.) 

After another silence, Frodo insists: "Love you, Sam." 

"Oh..." If only the tears would form now, might they fall, carrying with them all of Sam's heart, and wash Frodo clean again. In lieu, his next words pour from him helplessly: "I love you too, sir. I love you. I love you. I love you more than you'll ever know." 

Finally, Frodo seems to have caught some semblance of breath, and the slightest grin (one laden with that arresting wit) graces his features, to Sam's sudden, dizzying euphoria — though still Frodo's weariness remains apparent in his tired eyes and through the limpness of his body (draped so weightlessly over Sam's legs). So quietly, Frodo tells him: "I know".

**Author's Note:**

> Just another drunk/high drabble that more or less came outta nowhere. 
> 
> I'm overdue to post something with more than a couple days' effort, I know, but I'd still always adore your most honest feedback!


End file.
